Three to Conquer

10. The Alien

Moira stood as one paralyzed when he marched surlily into the office, planted himself behind his desk, and commenced rummaging through delayed correspondence.

After a while, he glanced up and growled, "Well, what's eating you? Have I turned into purple opprobrium around here?"

"No, Mr. Harper." She sat down weakly, still looking at him wide-eyed.

"Don't let your mouth hang open that way. It makes you resemble a half-starved carp. Where's the Pest Control progress report? They're bellyaching already."

She flew to a cabinet, jerked open a drawer, rifled its cards, extracted one and gave it to him. Her mind was whirling with the belief that she was alone with public enemy number one, and somebody ought to do something about it.

"Mr. Riley has been around several times," she informed, hoping he'd take the hint. "He said he'd call again today."

"He would, the big ugly bum." Harper studied the card, his expression sour. "Umph! When I say six weeks, I mean six weeks and not six days. Dear sirs, in reply to your query of yesterday's date—"

Grabbing her pencil, Moira scribbled with frantic haste. He spouted another forty words, and knew she was making a hopeless mess of her script.

"See here, Lanky, I am not a convicted criminal. During my absence, I have disembowelled none save the few hundred who deserved it. I am not wanted by cops, judges, wardens, army recruiters, or whatever. Now pull yourself together, and apply your mind to the job. Dear sirs, in reply to your query—"

This time she managed to take it down without error. She slipped paper into her machine, adjusted it, paused expectantly as heavy footsteps approached the office door.

"Here he is," announced Harper, with mock tenseness. "Dive under the desk when the shooting starts."

Moira sat frozen, one finger poised over a key.

Next moment, Riley bashed open the door in his usual elephantine manner, took the usual two steps to reach the desk. If his scowl had forced his eyebrows an inch lower, they'd have served as a mustache. He splayed both hands on the desk, while he leaned across it to stare into the other's eyes. Behind him, Moira, feeling faint with relief, gave the key a tentative tap.

"Now," said Riley hoarsely, "you're going to tell me what the flaming hell is happening right and left. Why are you wanted for murder one moment and not wanted the next? Why do they list you at top one day and remove you from the bottom another day? Why can't they make up their minds whether you're a hirsute hoodlum or not?"

"Life is just a bowl of cherries. I—"

"Shut up! I haven't finished yet. Why has the F.B.I, emigrated wholesale into this area and calmly confiscated my four best squads? Why have they staked out this crummy joint from the roof, the cellars, across the street, up the street, down the street, at both ends of the street, and in half a dozen adjoining streets? Why—"

"Why do you turn Moira into a nervous wreck the minute my back is turned?" Harper demanded.

"Me?" Riley fumed a bit. "I never touched her. I'm not that kind. I'm married, and happy at it. If she told you I touched her, she's a liar. I don't believe she did tell you. You're inventing things in an effort to change the subject. But it won't work, see? Why—"

"You looked at her and thought things," asserted Harper.

Riley flushed. "All right; I get it. You refuse to talk. I know I can't make you talk, and you're enjoying the situation. It gratifies your simian ego." He let his voice drop a couple of decibels, went on, "Would your lordship grant me the favor of one question? Just one little question, eh?"

"You may voice it," said Harper, trying to be lordly.

"To Whom must I go to get the answers?"

"General Conway."

"Jumping Jehoshaphat!" ejaculated Riley. He hitched his pants lest they fall down. "Is it that important?"

"Unfortunately, yes. And if they haven't seen fit to give you the details, then I mustn't do so, either. If I told you all, I'd usurp authority. It's the unforgivable sin. It breeds anarchy, with all its attending features of godlessness, promiscuousness and every form of untaxable naughtiness. Compile your own list — you know more about the wicked." He reached for another letter from the waiting pile. "Close the door gently as you go out. The glass won't hold under more than another two of your assaults."

"I could assault somebody right now," Riley informed him, showing big teeth. "Two burglaries, one hold-up and one case of arson last night. I'm supposed to dismiss them with a light laugh. I'm supposed to concentrate exclusively on looking for three guys named McDonald, Langley and Gould, and do it while robbed of four prowl cars. Nothing else matters but finding a trio of toughies against whom no criminal charge has been entered."

"Nothing else matters," Harper agreed.

Riley leaned closer and whispered, "Be a pal and tell me — what have they done?"

"Ask Conway."

"Thanks for nothing." Riley rattled the glass as he departed.

"Director of Research, Swain Laboratories, Trenton, N. J.," Harper recited while Moira snatched at her pencil. "In response to your inquiry for slowmotion pneumatic micromanipulators, suitable for use with type-Z electron microscopes, we have pleasure in quoting for our—" He glanced at the door which had opened. "Well?"

Agent Norris said, "We heard the conversation through the mike. What's that police officer to you?"

"A friend. He thinks he's entitled to my confidence." He sniffed, rubbed his nose, and added, "I think so, too."

"Why do you say that?"

"I know him of old. He's to be trusted."

"Make note of Harper's friends and intimates" droned Norris's mind, repeating orders in mistaken secrecy. "They are to be thoroughly checked." Vocally, he informed, "We let him through to you, being who he is. But we were wondering why he should come out with such peremptory demands for an explanation. What is good enough for the Commissioner ought to be plenty good enough for him, shouldn't it?"

"He's in a privileged position, so far as I'm concerned."

"Are you sure he did not have an ulterior motive in cross-examining you?"

"I did not look to see; I don't peer into everybody's mind. Besides, I'm busy trying to rescue myself from imminent bankruptcy. What motive could he have?"

"You can guess as well as anyone else — except that you don't have to guess," said Norris. "In a situation such as this, it's wise to suspect everyone, including your own mother."

He went out, joined Rausch in the machine shop. Harper continued with his mail. When lunchtime arrived, and Moira had £one out to eat, Harper summoned Norris to the office.

"Moira is a nice girl. She tops me by three inches, because I've pulled both her legs so often that they've stretched. But we get along all right."

"What's that to me?" Norris asked.

"I wouldn't like her to get hurt if she was around when a hatchet-man broke in. She's another worm on the same hook, and I'm not paying her for taking those risks."

"You're the one who's supposed to warn us of an attack," Norris pointed out. "Without you, we're working blind."

"I know. But I'm not holding her hand twenty-four hours per day. Do you suppose it might be best to get rid of her for a while? How about me sending her on paid leave until this affair is over?"

"No. You can play your part only by sticking to normal routine. Make enough changes, and a trap starts looking like a trap."

"They might jump her outside, hoping to use her to get at me. It wouldn't work, thank God; I'd know what was coming before it got here. Yet I'd hate to turn the guns on her because she'd ceased to be Moira any more. What's done can't be undone; I'd like to prevent the doing in the first place."

"She must take her chances, the same as everybody else," said Norris impassively. "It's no worse for one than for another."

"It is worse," Harper contradicted, "because one's more likely to be picked on than another. I'd be happier if she had had a guard, day and night."

"She has. We tied a couple of men onto her at the start. Same applies to your other employees. We've covered all your regular contacts as well. If anyone tries the tactic of approaching you in familiar form, they're going to have a hard time finding one suitable and fancy free."

"I could find one any minute," Harper declared.

Norris jerked an eyebrow. "Somebody not under continual observation?"

"Yes."

"Then it's your duty to tell me."

"An agent," said Harper. "Any agent. Who is watching the watchers?"

"That problem is beyond solution. Our men are working in pairs. We could group them in threes, fours, tens or twenties and find it not enough. The line has to be drawn somewhere between the desirable and the performable. They're operating in pairs, and that makes it impossible for one man to be taken by himself."

"So they must be confiscated two at a time?"

"If that can be done."

"The enemy can do anything that human beings can do. For all I know to the contrary, they can also do one or two things that we can't."

"We'll see about that," promised Norris.

The fourth successive day of ordinary, uneventful business routine found Harper bored with playing bait for fish that apparently had ceased to exist.

Meanwhile, he had become fed up with being followed wherever he went, finding G-men lounging at every street comer, occupying nearby tables in restaurants, standing beside him in comfort stations, breathing down his neck at the theatre, and standing sentry duty outside his bedroom. The price of human liberty was to sacrifice his own.

Monotony was broken, and faith in his purpose restored, when he arrived at the office early, spread the morning paper across his desk and found a news item tucked away at bottom of a column inside.

It was a most unusual report, in several respects. For one thing, it had been played down; for another, the precise location was not stated and no names were mentioned, other than that of Maddox. Lastly, this fight had occurred when all forces of law and order were engaged in one task and one only. Obviously, therefore, the incident had some bearing on the main issue.

This was confirmed ten minutes later when Jameson phoned long distance. "Seen the news?"

"I've just been reading it."

"It should have been on the dawn radiocast, but we kept it off. We're having a heck of a time persuading news services to minimize such items. Naturally they want to know why, and we can't tell them."

"What happened?" asked Harper.

"I can't say too much, even on an officially cleared line. In brief, one of our men picked up Langley's trail and followed it to the Rankovic farm. Langley must have moved out during the short lapse of time between our man's report and the raid. Anyway, we didn't get him. The fox had bolted, leaving the hole still warm."

"More's the pity."

"Two are dead. Their bodies are being shipped out for examination," Jameson went on. "Of the four we captured, three emphatically deny that they took any part in the battle. They say they merely happened to be in the house when the shooting started, and took cover until it ended. We've given them the paraffin test and the result is negative."

"What about the fourth?"

"He's a brother of one of the casualties. Says he was in bed, woke up when the ruckus started. Pulled on his pants and ran downstairs, joined his brother and another guy in slinging slugs out the windows. He swears that none of them knew they were firing upon the law."

"Sounds plausible," commented Harper.

"He gave up when tear gas got him. By that time, the other two were going cold. All four captives recognize Langley's picture, but know nothing about him except that he'd been rooming there a couple of days. He left at ten-forty, or not much more than an hour before the raid."

"Almost seems as if he'd been tipped off."

"He couldn't possibly have been. He was just lucky. Anyhow, I haven't called merely to tell the story; there's more to it than that. When we made the raid we surrounded the place, knocked and demanded entry. Somebody fired back through the door. Therefore, although Langley wasn't present, it made little difference — the house still concealed someone anxious not to be grabbed. What does that suggest to you?"

"Langley had made himself a pal."

"Yes, and he may have made himself more than one. Some fellow named Waggoner pulled out at the same time as Langley. We know nothing about him, except that he and Langley are teamed up. We have a good description and, of course, the search is continuing for both."

"You learned nothing about the other two?" Harper asked.

"McDonald and Gould? No, not in that locality. They appear to have split up. They're trying to make it harder for us by keeping apart." He paused, while the screen showed him to be consulting a document below the level of the distant scanner. "I want these four captives put to the test without delay. They may not be what they appear to be."

"Want me to come there?"

"No. It would spoil that setup at your end. We're flying the four to you. Give them the penetrating eye, and say whether they are or they aren't

"I'll do that."

"Thanks a lot. There's something else, too. So far, nobody has taken a bite at you. As you said yourself, it all depends on whether they knew the identity of that girl, and whether the filling station murder was a coincidence. To date, we have no evidence to show that they actually know they're being sought, or that they know we have learned of the ship's return. So it's—"

"Has the ship been found yet?" interjected Harper.

"Not a sign of it. It couldn't have been destroyed beyond recognition; a professional breaking-up yard, with gas-cutters and furnaces, would take a month to get rid of that mass of metal. Latest theory is that it's concealed somewhere in subarctic wastes or has been dumped in the ocean. The latter seems the more likely. In that case, the crew must have got ashore by using their rubber raft. We're raking the coasts in an effort to discover it."

"Well, it's an idea. What were you saying about nobody biting me?"

"I was pointing out that, up to last night, they may not have known for sure that the hunt is already in full cry. But the newspaper specifically mentioning the Rankovic farm could be a giveaway, if Langley reads it. You'd do well to be extra wary from now on."

"I'll tell Norris," said Harper. "He's my nursemaid."

"There's no need to. If he isn't actually listening in, he'll soon be informed by somebody who is listening. All your calls are being monitored."

"Solely as a measure of protection?" inquired Harper.

"Yes," said Jameson, without hesitation. He cut off. The visiscreen clouded, went blank.

"Lousy liar!" Harper glowered at the wall. "They are more bothered about my big ears than my whole skin."

The suspected quartet arrived a few minutes before the office was due to close. Norris lined them up in the machine shop, where they stood manacled together, staring around, openly puzzled by their presence in such a place as this. Half a dozen agents shared their company and watched them, narrow-eyed.

Norris went into the office and said, "They're here. How about it?"

"No luck," Harper told him. "They are normal enough to be downright dull."

"Okay." He went out, came back. "I've had three of them taken away. Jameson wants your report on the remaining guy. He admits taking part in the shooting, claims that he didn't realize what he was doing. Is he telling the truth?"

Shoving aside the papers with which he'd been dealing, Harper appeared to lie back while he pondered the question. He listened, picked up a worry that nagged like toothache, but failed to provide an answer. So he probed, drove the mind in the other room away from its present anxiety and onto the recent cause.

"It's true enough; he got a scare that sent him into a panic."

"That's all we want to know."

At three o'clock the following afternoon, Harper was taking it easy, his chair tilted on its back legs, his feet on the rim of the desk, his mind wide open as idly he watched Moira sorting invoices.

His mental faculty had two distinct methods of functioning, which he liked to symbolize as radio and radar. When he was playing at radio, he merely listened and put up with whatever programs were being broadcast in "the vicinity. If he switched to radar, he transmitted a pulse of his own which stimulated some other mind into producing a required response.

When he listened, ninety-nine times out of a hundred it was stuff not worthy of a moment's attention. But when he probed, he got what he wanted by nudging the other mind into thinking of it. So far as ordinary human beings were concerned, it made no difference which method he adopted because they were unconscious of both.

With a Venusian mind it wasn't the same; that had been his first lesson, learned when he contacted the entity owning the Whittingham girl. In some subtle way the Venusians differed. He could listen to one, radio-fashion, without it realizing that it was being overheard. But if, radar-like, he prodded one to compel release of a wanted fact, it felt the prod and took immediate alarm.

Right now, Harper was slowly and rhythmically rocking the chair and straining its hind legs, which gave forth protesting squeaks. Over the last few days he had not listened continuously; it was impossible to do that and give attention to other matters. Besides, it was sufficient for his mind to make a two-seconds sweep around the neighborhood every couple of minutes, much like a lighthouse beam circling across dark and stormy seas.

He rocked and made his umpteen hundredth or thousandth sweep, ceased punishing the chair, sat erect. Moira glanced at him expectantly, saw that his attention was not on her, and resumed her sorting. He listened again to something far away, perhaps a thousand yards or more, half-hidden in the general hubbub. It grew nearer, slowly but steadily, at a rate corresponding with walking pace. It was an inhuman mind gaggling like an angry gander.

"Norris!" he yelled.

Moira gave a jerk, dropped a bunch of papers, scrabbled for them on the floor.

The door whisked open and the agent looked in. "What's the matter?"

"I think this is it."

"You mean—?"

"It's coming on two feet. No car. On the sidewalk taking a stroll."

"Stay where you are!" ordered Norris. He bolted from sight.

Going to the window, Harper looked onto the road ten feet below. He opened the casement, and leaned out to get a better view.

If there was one pedestrian in sight, there must have been a thousand. The mind he sought had to be among that cluster on the left-hand side of the road, between four and five hundred yards to the north. His directional sense assured him of that much, but it could hot detach one individual from a distant bunch of nondescripts.

Still leaning out and watching, he waited for the weird mind to draw closer. Three hundred yards, two hundred, one fifty. By now he had narrowed the possibility down to three people — a smart housewife tripping along perkily; a plump and prosperous-looking businessman in his early forties; a lanky, lantern-jawed individual who slunk along close to the Wall.

Behind him, Norris reappeared and said, "All set. Now can you—?"

Ignoring him, Harper made a vicious mental stab along the receiving-line. The result came back in a split second: intense shock, wild alarm, frantic desire to escape and carry a warning elsewhere.

The housewife kept going, without faltering or changing pace. The lanky slinker maintained pace and manner. The plump man stopped in his tracks, glared wildly around, swung on one heel and started back whence he had come, at a rapid walk.

Harper jumped out the window. He heard a gasp from Norris, and an exclamation from Moira, before he landed heavily. His gun was already in his right fist as he regained balance and plunged forward, in the wake of the escapee.

Something in the expressions of passers-by told the quarry that things had begun to happen behind him. Lifting arms to sides, he broke into a headlong run. For one of his portly build, he showed a remarkable turn of speed.

A bewildered clerk carrying a large box danced in front of the charging Harper, who snarled, "Out of my way, Stupid!" brushed him aside and pounded on. Back of him, someone was shouting indistinguishable words in authoritative tones. On the comer, six hundred yards ahead, someone else blew a shrill whistle. A police-car siren started wailing. Two agents stepped out of a doorway ahead of the fugitive, weapons in hands, and bawled an order to halt. Two more came racing down the opposite side of the road.

The plump man wasn't finished yet. Taking as little notice of the guns as one would of peashooters, he dived through the main door of an office building. Harper went in five seconds later, red-faced and breathing hard; two agents followed close upon his heels. A car squealed into the curb, unloaded four more.

One of a bank of self-operated elevators was going up fast, taking the fugitive with it. Stopping at its folding gate, Harper scowled upward, watched the other's feet disappear from sight. One pair of agents raced up nearby stairs; two more jumped into an adjoining elevator and boosted it skyward.

Putting the muzzle of his weapon to the gate's lock, Harper fired, broke it, hauled the gate open and halted the elevator at the third-floor level. He had hoped to get the quarry stuck between floors, but the apparatus proved to be of automatic-levelling type and responded to sudden loss of power by letting its box sink into adjustment.

Listening to the minds above, he detected the fugitive's break-out onto the third floor, the nearness to him of the agents on the stairs, and knew what was going to happen before he could prevent it.

He galloped up the stairs with sweat beading his brow. He had covered the first flight and half the second, taking steps three at a time, when overhead there sounded a terrific blast, a tinkle of falling' glass, a brief pause followed by a hammering burst of explosions. His speed upped itself another twenty per cent while his lungs heaved.

While taking the turn from second to third, he heard the yowl of an alien spark becoming extinguished in a useless body, also the wild, despairing cry of something more human on its way out. He slowed down, mounting the remaining stairs at normal pace, knowing that he was too late.

The third floor corridor was a shambles. Three agents stood in a little group looking over the scene. One was holding a heavy riot gun still warm in the muzzle. Another was mopping blood that dripped steadily from his left ear. The third was gazing gloomily at the body of a fourth sprawled near the top of the stairs, crimson splotches on chest and face.

Ten yards from the elevator lay the corpse of the plump man. He was not a pleasant sight.